


Gambling Man

by shyday



Category: The Big Sleep (1946)
Genre: M/M, Yuleporn, secret santa slash, yuletide2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 22:29:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2709035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shyday/pseuds/shyday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even unconscious, Marlowe's got Eddie Mars on his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gambling Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Colourofsaying](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colourofsaying/gifts).



> Probably not what Chandler, Bogart, or Hawks envisioned. Too bad we can't ask them. A Yuleporn missing scene of sorts, written for Yuletide 2014. Explicit content. And hopefully what my recipient wanted.
> 
> Not mine. Because look what I did with them.

 

* * *

 

 

When Marlowe gets back to Eddie Mars’ club, the joint sounds like it’s still jumping hot as when he’d left it hours before. Like the suckers gambling inside have no plans to let the sun rise. It doesn’t ruffle his feathers any. Marlowe’s had his fair share of nights like those himself.

 

He walks up the path to the front door, the gravel crunching under his shoes. The door opens on its own when he reaches it, an invitation extended by nobody. Unless the doorman who’d been in attendance earlier had somehow gone and made himself invisible. A pretty neat trick, in Marlowe’s book. If he ever finds the guy, he’ll have to ask him how he did it.

 

He glances behind the door as he enters, but there’s definitely no one in sight. Not at the coat check either, the long bar devoid of its eye candy. Plenty of coats and hats waiting in the cubbies against the wall, but not a soul to disperse them. He wonders what happens when those swanky folks start lining up to collect their outerwear. Pictures them pointlessly waving their tickets. Climbing over each other and the desk.

 

He looks at the hat in his hand. Back to the abandoned island.

 

“Guess I’ll hold on to this then,” he says.

 

Marlowe moves further into the house, searching for signs of life. Despite the running soundtrack of clinking glasses and murmured conversation, every room he looks into sits completely empty. He can hear the ghostly crowd, but he can’t find them. The noise always swirling just behind the next wall. If Eddie’s got a gramophone hiding somewhere in one of them, it’s well disguised.

 

Five, six, seven rooms later. The party doesn’t seem to want him. Marlowe ducks back out of a doorway into the hall and shakes his head in disbelief. “Huh,” he says to the air, tugging at his ear. “That’s a new one.”

 

The air declines to comment.

 

Marlowe retraces the route to Eddie’s office; it seems to have added a couple extra twists and turns since he last walked it. He doesn’t remember the place being this big. From off to his left comes a sudden wave of laughter, swelling to crash over the threshold and spill into the hall. It pools around his feet. But still he can’t find its source.

 

When he gets to Eddie’s door, Pete and Sidney are waiting in front of it. Marlowe’s so grateful to finally find other people that he’s almost glad to see them. “Well hello, boys. Love what you’ve done with the place.”

 

They blink at him, almost in unison. Marlowe’s spotted more expression on dead fish. “Boss wants to see you,” Pete says.

 

“He does,” Sidney echoes. A willow tree to Pete’s stout oak. “That’s what the boss wants.”

 

“Nice to see some things haven’t changed,” Marlowe’s grin is intended to irritate. Judging by the scowl shaping Pete’s face, it’s working. Encouraged, he ups the wattage. Pete’s frown deepens.

 

Sidney’s mug always looks irritated, as far as Marlowe can tell. No change there.

 

They don’t move though, sentries guarding the door. “You’re gonna have to help me out here, boys – I never got the password. Last time the pretty dame just let me in.” In one of the rooms down the hall, the phantom band strikes up another tune. Something with swing. Marlowe doesn’t need to check in on them to know the notes will be floating from vacant air.

 

Hit him over the head with something enough times, eventually he’ll be able to describe the weapon.

 

Pete and Sidney are carved from stone, with no apparent desire to let him by. Marlowe pulls at his earlobe. “I’m touched you want to spend so much time with me. But we’d better not keep the boss waiting.” Pete gestures back down the hallway, an impatient motion. Marlowe gives him an exaggerated bow of thanks before heading the direction indicated. He leaves them there, an uneven set of bookends.

 

There’s no surprise when he enters the big room to find it without its crowd, the roulette wheel Mrs Rutledge had won at earlier anticipating patiently the next spin. The novelty of this hocus pocus is starting to wear thin. Marlowe absently snaps his fingers as he wanders the room, checking for clues to its execution under tables and behind potted plants. Maybe he’ll get lucky. Or at least figure out where Eddie’s hiding.

 

He’s bent almost double, inspecting a suspicious looking panel on the baseboard. It turns out to be nothing, a misleading chip in the wood. But he’s got his back to the voice when it comes.

 

“This way, soldier.”

 

Eddie’s voice, low and smooth and completely unexpected. Marlowe’s not a jumpy man by nature; still he straightens up so fast he almost knocks his skull into one of the lurking light fixtures. He eyes it warily before he turns around.

 

Eddie leans against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest and looking every bit as relaxed as his tone. Marlowe wonders that he didn’t hear that door open. It’s the one behind the tables, the private entrance leading to Eddie’s office. Not even half way across the room from where he stands. The other man’s watching him with the lazy look of a predator basking in the sun.

 

Marlowe feels a bit off balance.

 

“Place looks a little empty, Eddie. Business not as lively as it sounds.” Nothing. Just that intense gaze, pinning him like lunch to the middle of the room. “I admit I’m curious. Can’t figure how you pulled it off. You’ll have to let me in on the game.”

 

Eddie stays mute, slipping from the doorway to move into the office. Marlowe sees no good choice but to follow. He turns his hat in his hands, playing with the brim as he rounds the barren tables between here and there.

 

When he crosses the threshold there’s a drink already waiting, an offering at the end of Eddie’s outstretched arm. He tosses his lid onto Eddie’s desk. Accepts the glass and drinks the shot down. When he tries to hand it back, Eddie refills it. With a shrug, Marlowe rests his hip against the desk’s hard edge, his fingers curled around the cool crystal. He’s never been a man to refuse free booze.

 

“Just your gorillas out there,” he continues, feeling a need to fill the space. “Could be they scared off all the clientele.”

 

“Why’d you come back, Marlowe?” Eddie asks over the top of his glass, his lips close to brushing its rim.

 

Marlowe realizes he’s staring. His eyes drop to the drink in his own hands.

 

Why had he come back? It abruptly occurs to him that he doesn’t actually know. He can recall easily the earlier part of the evening, both of Sternwood’s daughters one after another like bullets flying at him out of a gun. Both deadly in their own right, of that he has no doubt. But he doesn’t remember the drive back out here. Or what had prompted him to make the long journey for the second time tonight. It’s a disturbing gap in his timeline.

 

And not one he wants to admit to Eddie Mars. He’s already feeling at enough of a disadvantage. “Maybe I missed you.”

 

“Maybe you’ve got more questions.”

 

“If I had, would you answer them?”

 

Now Eddie shrugs. “Depends on what they are.”

 

There are so many strings to all this, and Marlowe feels like he’s only inches from knotting their ends together. He finds himself watching Eddie’s mouth again, the way its corners curve into a sly smile. He takes a drink, looking for a distraction. With a jerk of his chin, Marlowe gestures to the dog statue on the pedestal in the corner.

 

“What’s the story with the mutt?” It’s a question. One with an answer he’s almost interested in hearing. Eddie’s eyes slide that way.

 

“My wife has show dogs.” His expression darkens. Clearly Mrs Mars is still not a subject Eddie plans to willingly discuss.

 

He likes seeing Eddie uncomfortable. “Any winners?”

 

“A few.”

 

Marlowe thinks about pushing it, but decides he doesn’t much want to talk about the broad either. Not when Eddie’s back to fixing him with that look. Like he’s trying to climb inside his head. From the first moment he met him, Marlowe’s had the sense he’s got to keep on his toes around this guy. It hasn’t lessened at all, the more he’s learned about the man.

 

Marlowe sets his drink down on the desk to free a cigarette from his pack. He pats at his pockets, searching futilely for his matches. Eddie’s there before he can find them, leaning in close to hold the flame to the tip of the rolled paper. Marlowe can smell his cologne. Musky and lingering.

 

“You fascinate me, Marlowe.” It’s a rumbling murmur that’s all exhalation, the tiny flame flickering between them. Eddie blows it out, and Marlowe feels the breath wing over his cheek. He’s a liar if he doesn’t cop to the tingle it sends running through him.

 

He chuckles, and it sounds fake as a fistful of counterfeit lettuce. He draws in a slow breath as Eddie steps away. “You should see me when I’m trying.” He wishes he knew why he’d come back here.

 

“Take off your coat,” Eddie says. “Stay a while.”

 

It’s warm in here. He won’t argue the point. The cigarette dangles between his lips as he removes his overcoat and slings it over a chair. “No one out front,” Marlowe says, not sure why it feels like he’s stalling. “That’s no way to run a classy place like this.”

 

The words spin themselves into something close to a sneer. Eddie arcs an eyebrow.

 

“You worry too much about my business, Marlowe.”

 

“I’m a worrier. You wouldn’t believe how I get over my bills.”

 

“Still,” Eddie says. A heavily weighted word. He refills his drink, holds up the bottle in offer to Marlowe. Marlowe lifts up his own glass, giving it a shake to show the giggle juice plainly splashing around. Eddie replaces the bottle on the top of the cabinet. “I’m sure there’s something else we could find to talk about.”

 

It sounds as if he’s already got something in mind. Marlowe takes a drag off the paper pinched in his fingers, counting Eddie’s steps as he closes the distance between them. “The thing about us worriers though, Eddie, is that we can’t let things go. We keep treading the same old ground, until we’re satisfied.”

 

“Or distracted.”

 

Eddie’s inches away. Marlowe sucks at his cigarette. He’s got his back to the desk now, the edge digging into his ass. “Is that what you’re trying to do, Eddie? Distract me?”

 

Eddie gives him a long look, one that crawls its way up and down his body. Marlowe shivers. He wonders if Eddie can tell he’s half hard already. It’s something of a surprising turn for the night to take.

 

“Just trying to make you feel welcome, soldier.” It’s nearly a purr. “Classy place like this.”

 

His body clearly has no qualms about this situation, but his brain’s still a bit hung up on the missing details. If only he could remember what he drove back out here for. It’s disorienting, to feel so wrong-footed, especially when Eddie seems to be so in control. He wishes he knew why his jaw was sore. Why his ribs ache. All this uncertainty is making him antsy.

 

He needs to get out of here, to regroup and figure how to start this whole thing again. He’s almost got all the pieces to the picture, he’s sure. Marlowe finishes off the booze in his glass, stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray. He needs to get away from Eddie. From that too hungry look on his face.

 

“Sorry, Eddie,” Marlowe says, shifting sideways to get out from between the taller man and the unyielding desk. “Looks like I’ve wasted your time twice tonight.”

 

He scoops up his coat, tugging at the knot in his tie as he moves toward the door. The air in here is hot and close. If he can get away from Eddie – maybe a dark room with a bottle is what’s in order – he can sort all of this out. Figure how it all connects.

 

He’s almost made it out when Eddie grabs his arm. The momentum swings him back around.

 

Eddie slams him up against the wall. The impact forces some of the air out of Marlowe’s lungs; he works to get it back with the weight of Eddie’s forearm pressing hard across his chest. He cocks a questioning eyebrow at the other man, fighting to keep his expression bland despite his racing heart.

 

“Maybe I don’t want you to leave just yet,” the gangster says.

 

He licks his lips, stealing the focus. Marlowe struggles to meet his eyes instead. “Thought you didn’t like me this much, Eddie.”

 

His clever mouth finds the skin above Marlowe’s collar. “I’m a liar.” The words smothered against his neck.

 

Marlowe would have never expected it to be admitted so baldly. “What?” It comes out less demanding than he’d meant it, the word ending in a gasp escaped when Eddie’s teeth nip at his ear. Eddie’s tongue flicks over his earlobe, and Marlowe’s hips buck against empty air, suddenly desperate for contact beyond the arm holding him to the wall.

 

“Didn’t quite catch that,” he grinds out, in a voice sounding less like his own by the second.

 

Eddie pulls his face back enough to look at him, and Marlowe has to bite off a frustrated moan. “Come on, Marlowe. You know what I am.” The words wind their way through the air even after his lips have stopped moving. They curl over Marlowe’s cheekbones, into his hair. Eddie’s hand wanders down his chest to find his erection, never breaking the eye contact. “And you don’t seem to have any objections.”

 

“A man should take his pleasure where he finds it. Life being short and all.” It feels barely coherent. Marlowe wonders if he’s forming actual sentences, with what Eddie’s doing to him with that hand through his trousers. “Provided the other party is willing,” he chokes out. Eddie’s fingers find his belt.

 

Eddie’s got Marlowe’s earlobe back between his teeth. He works at the buckle, and Marlowe almost misses his next words. “You seem pretty willing.”

 

Marlowe’s hand gropes for Eddie’s belt, uses it to drag the rest of the man’s weight against him. There’s too many layers of fabric between them. Aggravating, but not enough to disguise Eddie’s arousal. “So do you,” Marlowe growls.

 

“I told you. You fascinate me.”

 

“Lucky me.”

 

Eddie’s hand is back between them. The noise the buckle makes when it gives is the only sound in room other than their breathing, the blood throbbing in Marlowe’s ears. There’s no tantalizing slowness to the way Eddie rips down the zipper. To the vicious path his mouth is now blazing across his throat. Marlowe groans as the rush of cool air over his dick is immediately chased away by the warmth of Eddie’s hand.

 

It’s one of the rare times in his life that Marlowe doesn’t want to ask any questions. His brain spirals itself into dumb silence. Eddie’s big hand is slick with precum, and he’s already working up to a pretty good rhythm. He’s got Marlowe’s head forced back, his chin pointing toward the ceiling. Marlowe’s trying to remember how to breathe.

 

There’s a heavy knock at the office door, unexpected and jarring. Eddie’s hand freezes. Marlowe hisses through his teeth.

 

“Boss?”

 

Pete. Eddie lifts his mouth from a spot that Marlowe’s sure is going to bruise. “What?” He’s clearly annoyed at the interruption, all of it crammed into that one word.

 

Marlowe’s not pleased himself, Eddie still holding tight to his dick but not doing anything about it. Though it might almost be worth it, for the expression he imagines Pete would be sporting should he happen to open the door. Aching to do something, his hands search blindly for any part of Eddie they can find.

 

Eddie just smirks at him, shifting both his hips and his hold so that Marlowe’s more effectively incapacitated. And can’t reach him at all.

 

“We need you, boss,” Pete says from the other side of the door. Marlowe silently curses a handful of gods he doesn’t believe in.

 

“In a minute,” Eddie calls back.

 

The beautiful sound of fading footsteps, trailing away down the hall.

 

He doesn’t mean to thrust into Eddie’s hand, but it’s the only motion he’s allowed. He wants to get those fingers moving again. They shift down instead to play over his balls, and Marlowe growls at the tease. “Your boys are gonna miss you.” It’s not what he intends to say. “You took a big gamble. That they wouldn’t open the door.”

 

Eddie’s fingers circle around the base of his dick. Marlowe smashes his lips together against the sounds trying to work their way out of his throat as the gangster’s hand slips back into its rhythm. But it’s slow, far too slow. If he hadn’t been certain that Eddie was trying to kill him before, he knows it now.

 

The thought is solid against the mush of his brain. It stops Marlowe short for a moment.

 

_Where did that come from?_

 

“I’m a gambling man, Marlowe.” Eddie exhales it along the line of his jaw. Whiskey and cigarettes and that hint of cologne. “Right now I’m betting I can get you off before they come back.”

 

And all thought dissolves away.

 

Sweat and sensation and skin against skin. Marlowe knows he’s not going to last very long like this, even before Eddie starts to pick up his pace. The hand stroking him too practiced, Eddie a man on a mission. And Marlowe with no plans to stand in his way. His need for release is building fast, pulsing waves he can’t long ignore. Eddie’s teeth bite down on his ear. Marlowe’s groan reaches up to the ceiling.

 

“It all points to me,” Eddie whispers. Marlowe comes hard over his hand.

 

He loses a minute, maybe three. When he makes it back to himself, he’s confused to find he’s sitting on the floor. Marlowe blinks his eyes open, a task more difficult than usual. An unfamiliar room begins to shape itself around him. He wonders why his head suddenly feels like it’s trying to push its way out of his skull.

 

Or – arguably, more importantly – why he’s trussed up like a Christmas goose on the rug. Marlowe works to force his surroundings into focus, this new room painfully bright. He fights through the lingering tendrils of the dream to place this sudden reality. His cotton shorts cling awkwardly to his skin as he tries to shift position against the couch behind him.

 

The motion calls protest from his ribs, does nothing to help the headache. But it aids his memory’s recall, Canino’s ugly mug rising sharp in his mind. He’d been socked in the jaw. A careless mistake. And the dream just an odd framework for his mind to make the last few connections.

 

An interesting choice, to be sure. When this job’s done, Marlowe decides he’s going to sit down with his subconscious over a full bottle and have a conversation.

 

That makes this the house behind the garage, then. More or less exactly where Marlowe wanted to be. Means the blonde holding the water to his lips must be the dame he’s been hunting. At last. He swallows gratefully, the cool liquid feeling like heaven as it trickles down his throat.

 

The broad sits back to study him. “You’d be Mrs Eddie Mars,” Marlowe tells her. As if she might not know.

 

As if he can’t still feel her husband’s fist, wrapped warm around his dick.

 

 

    

 

end 


End file.
